


Time, She Did (As Time, She Does)

by SandrC



Series: Not Another Fanfiction Collection [29]
Category: Not Another D&D Podcast (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, History after the Campaign, Post-Finale, Wanderlust, lonely but not alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24384154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: It’s uncertain which Mound is found first, but quickly—as it is with children, who have their own strange underground communication network that transcends time and space—word spreads and soon children across Bahumia know the Rules. You only takeonething—any more is greedy and they’re meant foreveryone. Youalwaysleave something—it has to bemeaningfulor it doesn’t count. You don’t tellanyonewhere it is you found it—you can mention you found one, but you can’t give directions coz half the fun isthe journey.(Or: the story of what comes after)
Relationships: Balnor the Brave & Moonshine Cybin & Hardwon Surefoot & Beverly Toegold V, Moonshine Cybin & Beverly Toegold V
Series: Not Another Fanfiction Collection [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1312925
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	Time, She Did (As Time, She Does)

**Author's Note:**

> Starting out a thought about Undying Sentinel being sad because Bev would have to be killed to die. Ending a thought about time and tradition and disambiguation of truth into myth into lore.
> 
> I love the Boobs. I'm gonna miss them. I hope their presence is always felt in Bahumia, in the same way that it'll be felt in me.

Time passes and history is written. Same as before, the truth of the matter becomes distorted, viewed through warped glass. The validity of the four Titans of Bahumia being real people instead of gods made manifest is weakened as the Hero Thiala becomes the Suneater, as the Chosen fade from existence, as anyone who was alive for any of what becomes known as the Sundering dies—even the elves.

And, despite all this, Moonshine and Bev continue on.

Bev cites his desire to wander as “busy feet” but Moonshine knows better. She can see the pain when he buries his mother, his hair grey and yet his hands as steady as if he was no older than 80. She can remember the year he spent researching and preemptively _grieving_ when he realized he would outlive everyone, even her. She still has nightmares about the horror Beverly expressed the day of Erlin’s passing. The Kinship Braids in their own hair are a weighted reminder of the hole where Hardwon used to be. There’s too many memories if he’s stagnant, so she acquiesces but she won’t let him go at it alone.

“After all,” she says, airy and fake enough that Bev doesn’t _need_ to call her on her bullshit, “we may as well survey what we’ve built.” So, three hundred years after the Sundering, they touch up their Kinship Braids, grab their old gear, and leave to travel in an attempt to outrun the memories.

They make an odd pair, _especially_ considering that no one _really_ remembers them. _Sure_ , there are some young elves—Ren and some of the younger crick elves being the exception, though they’ve had to bury a lot of their _older_ elven friends—but to everyone else, they’re a _legend_. Balnor the Brave, Hardwon the Kind, Moonshine the Wise, and Beverly the Strong; Titans who killed the Suneater. Who bound Bahumia back together with magic and faith. Who rode dragons across the sky and returned ancient beasts from where they slept.

So no one suspects a crick elf and a halfling of being anything other than simple travelers. _Even if_ they bear ancient symbols and wear ancient fashions. _Even if_ they are accompanied by a large possum and any number of small dragons. _Even if_ the ground is greener where they walk, as if the very earth beneath them gives thanks.

Beverly finds that picking up hobbies passes the time. Moonshine shares Jolene’s wisdom with him early on—“you have centuries to get it right”—and old hoarding habits die hard. Whenever he switches hobbies, his pack filled to the brim and his skills unparalleled, he always takes a moment to bury them in a shallow hole. Then he covers them with dirt and encourages mushrooms to help bring back the flora.

“ _I_ think,” he says when Moonshine asks about his strange decision to bury his work, “people need stories, don’t they? _Children_ more than most and, _well_ , there are a _lot_ of kids and a _lot_ of Bahumia. I figure I may as well start _some_ kind of tradition, if I’m gonna be around _this_ long. Like a treasure hunt you stumble on.” He smiles, soft, fond, distant, thinking of teeth and patches and father figures. “Who knows what will come of it, but maybe it’ll be good. We can only hope.”

“ _We can only hope_ ,” she echoes as she watches him bury every carving he’s ever made. There is a warmth there, in the cave of her chest. She thinks about Pendergreens and wondering if it gets easier. Having someone around helps. And they wander on; her gardening this new Bahumia with a loose and practiced hand that she learned from Balnor, him finding something new to occupy his thoughts and his hands.

After some time, children find them, these stashes of hobbies and memories. This is _centuries_ later, when the Sundering is a folktale and the Titans myth, their names lost to titles. When possums and tuna and turtles and crows are sacred animals, messengers to the gods on behalf of Bahumia. When the solar eclipse is known as the Consumption, an echo of the Suneater’s malice. When the Crick is more half-elf, half- _whatever else_ than it is pure elf. All those centuries pass and then children begin finding what they call Mounds.

It’s uncertain which Mound is found first, but quickly—as it is with children, who have their own strange underground communication network that transcends time and space—word spreads and soon children across Bahumia know the Rules. You only take _one_ thing—any more is greedy and they’re meant for _everyone_. You _always_ leave something—it has to be _meaningful_ or it doesn’t count. You don’t tell _anyone_ where it is you found it—you can mention you found one, but you can’t give directions coz half the fun is _the journey_.

Soon the stashes of memories and hobbies—carved trinkets, skipping stones and polished gems, pieces of metal shaped into delicate flowers, bones carved into dice, clay tablets with ancient runes baked into them, small portraits of people in handcrafted lockets—fill up with _other_ things. A poorly articulated wooden fish is replaced by a daisy crown made by two best friends the morning of. A lumpy flute made of clay is replaced by a necklace that has always been in the family. A ring of interlocking waves is replaced by a braided hair tie with beads bound in it.

The ground covering them is _always_ soft enough to move with your hands. The mushrooms that cover them are always _slightly_ unusual, as if they don’t belong in this plane of existence. _Sometimes_ an elf and a halfling in strange, outdated outfits stop by and marvel at what has been given in exchange for the original contents. They smile, wistful and hopeful all at once, talk fondly of times gone by, and cover the Mounds back up. Then, hand in hand, they walk off into the horizon like they’ve done for _so many_ years.

_Approximately_ 8000 years after the Sundering, a child encounters a strange Mound, _far_ larger than the rest. It could even be considered a _cairn_ if they had known what a cairn was. The contents of this Mound are three skeletons in ancient armor with ancient weapons. One seems to be an elf, the second a halfling, and the third a possum. They are wrapped around each other in a fond embrace, their fingers still interlocked after decades of decay, laying on one big bed made of sturdy canvas filled with unnaturally large mushrooms and flowers too green for being without sun for so long. Their skulls are filled with blooming flowers and mushrooms that no one can classify, their ribcages a small ecosystem of the same type. No one is certain _when_ they died, but it seems to have been at the same time, by the same manner. _At least they weren’t alone._

The people of Bahumia erect a temple there, dedicated to the Titans. To the Brave and the Kind and the Wise and the Strong. And also to these three, the mysterious Wanderers, who traveled Bahumia silently and watched as things changed. The child that found them there, resting in each other’s arms, becomes the first cleric of this new faith. They preach tenants built on kindness and love, of gardening and guiding, of giving back and making sure there is something to protect. They speak sermons of duty and injustice, of reckless abandon and warm emotion, of fearful distance and endless hospitality, of weakness and an inner strength. They see the rise of something new atop the grave of something old, as all things are.

(And so the wheel turns on, quick kindess and lingering hope, and in a temple dedicated to love and protection, Beverly and Moonshine and PawPaw find their eternal rest.)

**Author's Note:**

> [Title and mood from Solar Waltz by Cosmo Shelldrake](https://youtu.be/dhhbXJraghs)


End file.
